by Deidre Berry
If only it were true. That would have been great!
I got up and ventured out into the apartment. It was quiet, without even a television or radio playing. I called out, “Vance, you home?” but got no response. No wonder. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen read 12:32 PM. It was the crack of noon, so like most people with thriving careers, Vance had probably been at work for a few hours already.
I was famished. I went through the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets, and determined rather quickly that Vance’s disclaimer about there “not being much around here in the way of groceries” had been modest. There clearly wasn’t a whole lot of home cooking being done around there, because the only thing Vance had the makings for was a grilled cheese sandwich, which I ate with a bowl of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup.
It had been a while since I’d had to do it, but I was no stranger to making something out of nothing.
My ability to adapt was like a superpower. No matter what the circumstances, I may bend, but I never break. At least I haven’t so far, but what I was facing then was the ultimate test in strength and resourcefulness. I emptied the last of a carton of orange juice into a glass and sat down at the kitchen table to eat. It was far from the glamorous gourmet meals that I was used to, but it was still tasty, and it got the job done.
Vance had left that morning’s Times on the table, so I browsed the classifieds hoping against hope that there were some great editing jobs available, or at least a decent freelance writer position.
I had heard about the restructuring, the hiring freezes and massive layoffs in publishing and print media, but the pickings were so slim it was ridiculous.
Apparently, the industry was not only struggling, it was on life support.
There just weren’t very many jobs to be had, and unfortunately, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. When the economy is bad, people put themselves on budgets, and the first things to go are the magazine subscriptions.
There were, however, plenty of openings for: nannies, CDL drivers, bike messengers, “dancers,” and escorts. I grabbed a nearby pen and put big X’s through all the job listings that weren’t for me, and added detailed commentary such as No! No! No! Hell, no! And hell fucking no!
I tossed the newspaper aside, cleaned up the dishes I had used, and then went to check out the lay of the land.
Vance hadn’t taken the time to give me the grand tour the night before, but I’ve learned that sometimes the best tours are the ones that you give yourself.
I started poking around in the living room, which usually says a lot about a person. Vance’s living room said that he was a music man, to the core. Off in the far corner of the room there were two three-foot-tall conga drums, a steel pan drum set, and an acoustic guitar. “Who does he think he is?” I wondered out loud. “Wyclef Jean?”
For sure, Vance’s musical tastes were as eclectic as I have ever seen in one person’s personal music library. He had some jazz, techno, gospel, a little bit of country, and a little bit of rock ’n’ roll. There were just as many vinyl albums as there were CDs, and I’m not talking about just old school albums either. He had plenty of new stuff too, like the latest from Georgia Anne Muldrow, Oumou Sangare, Kid Cudi, and some Canadian kid named Drake.
After taking care of some business in the bathroom, I took a peek in the medicine cabinet and found it full of shaving cream, Sportin’ Waves hair pomade, Mach3 razors, a nose hair trimmer, dental floss, an unopened box of contact lenses, Crest Pro-Health mouthwash, and oh . . . ! What do we have here? A box of Just for Men in the shade of “natural black.” It’s a bad habit, I know. “Rambling” is what Mama Nita called it, and I don’t know why I do it, except for the fact that you can find out pretty much all you need to know about a person by rifling through the medicine cabinet.
For instance, before I met Donovan, during my single, girl-about-town days, I dated a guy named Eric who I was really into. Eric was a successful concert promoter, and we always had a great time whenever we hung out. Well, when Eric invited me over to his modest co-op in Park Slope for the very first time, and when I made the inevitable trip to the bathroom, what did I find in his medicine cabinet? Zoloft, plus Xanax, plus Paxil, which added up to be just plain fucking crazy! No more dates with that one. Trust me, I’ve learned.
Vance’s master suite was huge. The shades were closed so it was cool and dark inside, and the room smelled liked Carolina Herrera’s 212 cologne. There wasn’t much to see in there except a giant four-poster bed that needed to be made, and a closet full of the standard lawyer uniform, consisting of dark, three-button suits, striped shirts, and insanely expensive suits that contributed to Vance’s GQ mystique.
The second bedroom was fit for a princess.
Almost as big as the master bedroom, it was an explosion of all things pink and frilly, and was the exact prototype of the kind of bedroom I wished I’d had growing up. There was a canopy bed made of bleached-blond wood, with matching dresser and nightstand, a large toy chest, and a teeny-tiny vanity table and mirror.
I smiled, thinking that Vance’s little girl was lucky to have a daddy who obviously loved her very much.
If only I had been so lucky.
Bernard, my own father, had been doting as well, but he had vanished from my life when I was around six years old, and his absence from my life was an issue that still baffles me. How could someone who took you everywhere he went and made sure you had the best of everything just turn and walk away from you, never to be seen or heard from again?
Whenever I had asked Gwen where my father was, she would either ignore the question or laugh and suggest that maybe he had been abducted by aliens. That was typical Gwen. Crude and rude, and so self-absorbed that other people’s feelings were of no concern to her.
Vance’s living room was dominated by a sliding glass door that led out to a patio large enough to host a party for about twenty to thirty people, and it also had an awesome view of the Hudson River.
The apartment was on the twenty-third floor, and for a split second, I thought of flinging myself off the terrace balcony. In less than one minute my problems would be over and I wouldn’t have to worry about any of it, but the thought left as quickly as it came, because I was far too vain to end it all in such a horrific manner.
Like the great poet Pat Parker once said, “Black people do not, Black people do not, Black people DO NOT commit suicide!” It was such a selfish, cowardly act, and was definitely not an option, so I wiped those thoughts from my mind and chose instead to focus on the best way for me to move forward.
I had spent the last two years totally absorbed in a lifestyle that didn’t really belong to me. Hell, it didn’t even belong to Donovan, because it was all bankrolled on stolen money.
Now, literally overnight, I was expected and required to get on a path of independence and self-sufficiency, and the sooner the better.
I know, cue the violins, right? I only had myself to blame, because I should have never gotten off the path in the first damn place.
Looking out over the bustling city, I recalled one of the first articles I had written for Flirt magazine , where I had started out as a staff writer.
When in a pinch for cash, fashionistas in the know head to the Upper East Side, where in comparison to any other area of town, the most money is offered in exchange for gently used clothing and accessories. . . .
I went back into my “bedroom” where I dumped the contents of the trash bags containing my belongings right in the middle of the floor. I needed to access what was what, and it was just as I suspected.
There were so many of my things that were unaccounted for, it was downright criminal. And the missing items weren’t limited to just the things that Donovan had bought, like Annette had implied. Gone were the expensive investment pieces that I had worked for, and paid for myself, like classic Chanel blouses, cashmere Prada sweaters, and neat little jackets from Cavalli and Isabel Toledo.
It takes years to create a look that works
and build a complete wardrobe. Mine had been immense.
My designer bag game was proper, and my shoe game was mean.... Grrr! Gucci, Christian Dior, Fendi, Missoni—you name it, I’d had it. And now it was all gone, including all of the gifts that I had received on my birthday from the two celebrations.
All that was left were my underwear, several pairs of jeans, a couple of pairs of shoes, a few lousy tops, and the large stuffed elephant that Donovan had won for me the first time we’d gone to Coney Island together.
Insult was added to injury when I discovered that my jewelry box was nowhere to be found.
I sorted through what was left of my former life, and tried my best to keep the tears back, but regardless of my efforts, they flowed like running water. Annette Dorsey was a scandalous old crow who was proof that the apple does not fall far from the tree, and that you can take the woman out of Queens, but you can’t take Queens out of the woman.
I was livid, and I refused to take that woman’s abuse lying down.
Wiping my tears, I grabbed a cordless phone off of Vance’s desk and dialed a number. Blanche, Annette’s housekeeper, answered on the other end.
“May I speak to Mrs. Dorsey, please?” I asked Blanche, sounding very friendly and businesslike.
“I’m sorry, but Mrs. Dorsey is hosting a luncheon at the moment and can’t come to the telephone. Is there a message?”
“No, no message.” I smiled at her through the phone. “Thank you!”
Taming the Shrew
The first thing Donovan did with his first ten million dollars was to buy his mother a home in the prosperous suburban enclave of Scarsdale, NY, which with traffic is about forty-five minutes away from the city.
It was a little after one PM on a Wednesday afternoon, so traffic was light. Add that to the speed demon way I was driving Vance’s black E-class Mercedes coupe, and I landed on Mama Dorsey’s doorstep in thirty minutes flat.
Technically, Vance hadn’t exactly given me permission to borrow his car. I had noticed that there were a couple of sets of car keys hanging on the key rack in the kitchen, and seeing as how this was an emergency, I was certain he wouldn’t have minded.
Besides, it wasn’t like the Benz was Vance’s only means of transportation. He had three vehicles, two of which were just sitting in the underground parking garage collecting dust. I grabbed the set of keys with the Mercedes Benz emblem, but when I got to the garage, I was surprised to see that there were all kinds of Mercedes parked down there.
Vance’s neighbors were also doing very well for themselves, because there were Mercedes trucks, sport wagons, coupes, convertibles—you name it. Thank God for modern technology. Otherwise I would have never known which one of those vehicles belonged to Vance.
I pressed the alarm button on the remote key and viola! There it was. Luckily, the E-class had a full tank of gas, which was plenty to get to Scarsdale and back. The plan was to replace whatever gas I ended up using, and have Vance’s car back before he even knew it was missing.
Annette’s sprawling, ivy-covered mansion sat on several acres of manicured land and was surrounded by poplar and pear trees.
The house was rumored to have been owned by Nicky Garofalo, the legendary goodfella who had wisecracked to the media years ago during his racketeering trial that there were multiple bodies buried deep beneath the property. I’m not sure how true the story is—it could just be hearsay—but I am certain that Nicky Garofalo and Annette Dorsey were cut from the same cloth and would have gotten along very well.
Blanche hadn’t lied. There really was some kind of social function going on, because Annette’s circular driveway was filled with dozens of expensive vehicles. Several uniformed chauffeurs milled around outside smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze with each other to pass the time until their employers were ready to leave.
My bet was that it was a luncheon to benefit whatever cause Annette wanted to kiss the ass of that particular week. Her social standing was very important to her, and she was constantly writing checks and throwing elaborate functions in an effort to keep herself relevant and in the good graces of the social hierarchy powers that be.
Blanche, who I placed at around 108 years old, led me into the massive living room that looked like a page straight out of Architectural Digest, which is great if you like your home to have the look and feel of a museum.
Everything inside, including the lady of the manor, was overwhelmingly ornate, overstuffed, and antique. The decor was personally not my style or taste, but was the old-money style that Mama Dorsey cultivated, with her nouveau riche ass.
The thing about Annette Dorsey was that she was so snotty and relentlessly high-minded that one would never know she was born and raised in Hell’s Kitchen and that she was once a short-order cook, and also sold Avon in order to make ends meet.
Annette’s living room was dominated by women, so it was clearly an intimate girls-only luncheon, and they had all dressed exquisitely for the occasion, some of them in elaborate Mad Hatter–style hats. The Grande Dame herself looked resplendent dressed in a fire-engine-red Escada pantsuit and so many sparkling diamonds that she looked like a walking Christmas ornament.
Annette was shocked to see me, but she played along nicely as if I were an invited guest that she had been expecting and was thrilled to see.
“Eva, sweetheart, it is so good to see you!” Annette said, calling me over to introduce me to the group of women to whom she had been talking. There was the wife of this mogul and that, a celebrity or two, and the heads of several notable charities and foundations.
“And everyone, this is Eva Cantrell, a dear, dear friend of the family. . . .” Then she stage-whispered, “She’s a piece of work. . . .” out of the corner of her mouth, which caused a few titters.
“And it certainly takes one to know one. Right, Annette?” I tittered a couple of times just like they had and then stopped abruptly, sending the clear message that I wasn’t there for idle chitchat, or to play games.
It was an awkward moment for Annette. But she sailed through it gracefully by straightening her back and smiling broadly. “Eva, dear, can I have a word with you in private?” she asked.
“But of course!” I said in a voice that matched her theatrics.
She had some nerve. Carrying on as if I were the one who’d stolen millions of dollars of other people’s money, money that more than likely helped pay for her home as well as this little afternoon shindig for which she had pulled out all the stops.
Mama Dorsey smiled and said, “Pardon me for a few moments,” to her guests, and I followed her down a long hallway into her cherry-paneled private study.
Once the door was shut Annette whirled on me like a fire-breathing dragon. “Why are you here?” she snapped
“I think we both know the answer to that.”
“No, actually I don’t,” she said, giving me a steely-eyed stare. “But I must say that this was certainly a pleasant surprise.”
“Pleasant? Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ve always enjoyed having people show up at my doorstep uninvited.”
Annette was being facetious, but I knew how to play that game as expertly as she did.
“Right, and I just love being robbed of just about everything I own by someone who is certainly old enough to know better.”
She nodded. Now that she knew exactly why I was there, she seemed to relax a bit. Like a predator who had caught its prey but wanted to play with it before devouring it.
“Do you have any idea what this last month and a half has been like for me?” Annette asked quietly, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out a pack of Newport Menthol 100s. She lit a cancer stick and inhaled the smoke deeply as if it were both calming and refreshing. “While you and Donovan were off traipsing around Europe, I was here, from day one, right in the eye of the storm. . . .”
I could have sworn I heard violins playing as Annette sadly filled me in on how life had been for her since the scandal broke.
“You’re so lucky that you and Donovan never married. You’ll move on and put this behind you one day, but can you imagine what it’s like being the mother? The stench of this is going to be with me for the rest of my life, and I know full well that none of those bitches out there are really my friends. I know that at this very moment, they are all out there laughing and talking shit about me behind my back. . . .” Annette daintily dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “And do you know that the turnout for this luncheon was much lower than expected? I can’t get anyone on the phone anymore, and this is all just too much! I worked so hard to get here, only to have it snatched away in the blink of an eye. . . .”
It was pure, unadulterated drama. Mama Dorsey had certainly missed her calling as an actress, because I was on the verge of feeling sorry for her until I noticed that she was wearing a large pair of Deco Dome diamond earrings that looked alarmingly familiar. I would recognize them anywhere, because they were mine.
“Nice earrings, Annette,” I said, casually. “Where did you get those?”
She was busted and she knew it.
And it was interesting to watch her eyes go from lukewarm to ice cold in a matter of seconds.
“Let me give you a bit of advice, Eva,” Annette said, furiously smashing her cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. “What I’ve done may seem unfair and unethical, but when the ship goes down, it’s everyone for themselves.”
That was all the confirmation I needed that the rest of my belongings were stashed away somewhere in her mausoleum. I saw red, and it wasn’t just from the loud pantsuit she was wearing.